The Bus Ride
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya Kuryakin and April Dancer are tasked with shdowing an U.N.C.L.E. courier.


With a great deal of trepidation, April Dancer headed to the office of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. She had only been a Section 2 agent for three months, and her initial probationary period was almost up, so the summons to see the CEA had her more than a little nervous. Upon entering the room, she was invited to sit down in front of Mr Solo, who was smiling benignly from behind his desk.

"Forgive me for not standing up," he said to her. "I broke my foot a few days ago and, unlike some people, I listen when my doctor tells me to take it easy."

April entirely missed the subtext of Mr Solo's words, and the pointed look he received from the other man.

"Good morning, Miss Dancer," Mr Kuryakin greeted her, as he took up a position behind his partner.

He leant nonchalantly against the wall with his arms folded. His expression was entirely unreadable, but April found herself drawn into the intense blue of his eyes. He seemed to be looking into her innermost thoughts. She replied to his greeting before tearing her gaze away and returning it to Mr Solo.

"You're no doubt wondering why we have called you in," Napoleon stated.

"I've been trying to think what it could possibly be," April answered. "I was sure that my performance was adequate."

"Your performance has been exemplary," Solo reassured her. "The reason you're here is that Mr Kuryakin needs a woman."

This earned him another sharp look from the man in question.

"Would you care to rephrase that, please?" Illya requested, firmly.

The look which appeared on his face, and the ice in his voice, put the fear of God into April, but Mr Solo seemed not to notice.

"U.N.C.L.E. has been given possession of a prototype pistol," the CEA continued. "It is being transported by a courier using a Greyhound bus. The two of you will be an undercover security escort. You'll be taking over from two other agents who are travelling as separate individuals. Neither they, nor the courier, will know who you are. Your cover is as a woman called May, who is bringing her fiancé, Nick, to meet her parents. Do you think you can act the part of someone in love?"

"We were given training for such scenarios," April told him. "But I've had no practical experience, outside of actual love affairs."

"In that case, since you know how it feels to be in love, I am sure you will be able to 'pull it off' as you Americans say," Illya assured her.

He flashed a brief smile, which softened his expression immeasurably.

"We will be flying to Buffalo at 7 am tomorrow," he continued. "The bus we are catching leaves from there at 10. That will give us time for breakfast."

"For now, take this mission file, and acquaint yourself with the man you will be guarding," Napoleon said, handing her the file. "Report to Illya at 6 am."

...

The journey to Buffalo had been entirely uneventful and it hadn't taken Illya long to find a diner near to the bus station. There hadn't been much conversation between the newbie and the seasoned agent on the plane, other than discussing the assignment, which left April feeling even more nervous about the mission. Yet, as soon as they'd disembarked from the plane, they projected a picture of two young people who were deeply in love. They held hands almost constantly from leaving the plane, April snuggled into Illya's shoulder whenever she could and, every so often, they talked about wedding plans.

The agents had taken care to dress themselves to look 'normal'. April was wearing dark green slim-leg pants with a lightweight pale blue shirt, while Illya had opted for white jeans and a red shirt. The Russian's outfit meant that he couldn't carry his usual weapon, so he had been forced to resort to smaller pistol, and an ankle holster. His communicator was tucked into a special pocket sewn into the seam of his jeans. To the casual observer it looked like an aesthetic design. April's equipment was safely ensconced within her white purse.

In the diner, Illya had ordered a stack of pancakes, and a large plate of bacon and eggs, along with a large black coffee. April had chosen a small fruit platter and watched in shocked admiration at the speed at which her slightly-built, temporary partner finished off his breakfast, before ordering another plate of bacon and eggs.

"How are you finding it as a Section 2 agent?" Illya asked, as he drained his coffee mug.

"I'm not sure," April answered truthfully.

"Are you finding it too challenging?"

"Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the job immensely," she hurriedly told him. "I just find it difficult sometimes to live in a fishbowl."

"I do not understand," said Illya, with obvious confusion. "What do you mean by 'live in a fishbowl?"

"Imagine you're a fish in a bowl that spends the whole day being stared at by people," April explained. "You can't hide from away or ask them to stop staring. You can only put up with it. That's what it feels like as U.N.C.L.E.'s first female agent. Everybody is watching you all the time. The worst part is knowing that many are waiting to see you mess up, as though wanting to declare the 'experiment' a failure"

"Ah, now I comprehend," Illya replied, nodding in understanding. "And I can fully empathise. Being the only Russian agent, I know exactly what it is to be the novelty. I carry the further burden of being mistrusted due to my nationality. Do not worry. The novelty should wear off. . .eventually."

"How long did it take for you?"

"I'm hoping it will happen any day now," Illya replied, chuckling softly at his own joke.

April smiled at him in gratitude. It somehow made her feel better to know she wasn't alone in feeling like she was under constant surveillance.

When their bus arrived, April spotted the courier as soon as they boarded; though she gave him no more than a glance. He was sitting by the window, with a scruffy canvas messenger bag on his lap, three seats behind the driver. Quickly assessing the available remaining places, Illya pointed to a free space another two seats back, on the other side of the bus. April took the window seat, leaving Illya the aisle seat; which he preferred. From there, they could easily observe the courier.

To April's mind, the man chosen to be courier was the perfect choice for the job. He was in his early twenties and fairly unkempt. He blended in well with several other people on the bus, most of whom looked just like someone heading to the Big Apple to seek their fortune, or to attend one of the many seats of learning.

The bus was only about half full, and rest of the passengers were a mixed bag; none of whom looked as though they would be interested in a prototype weapon. Though, of course, that didn't rule any of them out as possible suspects. On the seat next to theirs sat a sole lady in her mid-fifties. She had a knitting bag beside her and was in the process of producing some sort of cardigan.

Within ten minutes of her introducing herself as Mrs Celia West, Illya and April knew the names of her four children, and seven grandchildren. The cardigan she was knitting was seemingly for her brand-new, as yet unnamed, eighth grandchild, who she was on her way to meet.

"Do you have children?" she asked, barely pausing for breath. "I bet with your good looks you would produce beautiful babies."

"We are not yet married," Illya informed her, finally getting a space long enough in which to speak.

"We're on the way to see my parents," April told her. "My father is quite old fashioned, so Nicky is going to formerly ask for my hand."

"Oh how wonderful!"

"We shall have a large family," Illya announced, kissing the palm of April's hand tenderly. "At least seven children."

April giggled, and leaned over to kiss Illya's cheek.

"So, tell me about the wedding you're planning," Mrs West prompted.

For the next hour, Illya allowed the conversation between April and Mrs West to wash over him; though he kept half an ear on what was being said, in case he was required to add something. He found himself quite impressed at how well the young agent was spinning her own backstory. She was quite a good actress and, if Illya hadn't known better, he could easily have fallen for the tale she was telling.

"Are we slowing down?" April suddenly asked him.

Illya looked out of the window as the bus came to a stop at the side of the road. They were quite some distance from the nearest occupied area, and it didn't seem as though there was anything wrong with the vehicle.

"No doubt the driver will tell us what's happening," Illya answered, with a mildly worried air.

Although he was acting as though he wasn't overly concerned, his every sense and instinct was on high alert. It was the same for April. Something was definitely happening, but she didn't allow it show. Instead, she laid her head against Illya's shoulder and whispered 'block me'. Understanding what she was planning, Illya leaned forward and began to rub his calf; loudly complaining that his leg was threatening to cramp. He made sure April's hands, and purse, were hidden from view, giving her ample opportunity to pull out her pistol and tuck it down beside her leg. As soon as she was done, he sat back again.

"I hate sitting still for too long," he muttered, with absolute honesty.

At the front of the bus the driver opened the door in response to a pistol being pointed directly at him. All eyes looked to the gunman as he stepped aboard. He was tall, muscular, and appeared as though he would have no qualms about shooting anyone. Indeed, when a couple of people started screaming and shouting, he pistol-whipped the nearest one, a middle-aged man, knocking him out cold. It had the desired effect of shutting everyone else up.

"Which one has it?" he asked, looking at no-one in particular.

"I'm not sure yet," replied Mrs West, much to the surprise of April. "But given Kuryakin's presence, it's safe to say the courier is here somewhere."

The gunman stalked over to the man Mrs West was pointing to and pulled him up by his shirt.

Illya allowed the man to pick him up, playing the part of frightened innocent, and not willing to risk making a move while there was a pistol pressed against his forehead.

"So this is U.N.C.L.E.'s pet Russkie?"

"Yes," Mrs West confirmed. "He claims to be someone called Nicky, and he has somehow managed to convince that stupid girl of that fact. I recognised him from the sizable dossier Thrush has on him."

"Are you sure she's not an U.N.C.L.E. agent?"

"As far as I am aware, there are no female agents in U.N.C.L.E.," the Thrush woman answered. "They are so far behind the times compared to us."

April could have cheered at the woman's words. If they thought of her as harmless, it might give her an advantage.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sounding absolutely terrified. "Please don't hurt my poor Nicky."

"I hate to break this to you dear," Mrs West said, in a tone full of glee. "But this man is not called Nicky. He is Illya Kuryakin. A spy from Russia."

"Is this true, Nicky?" April asked, with a sniffle. "Tell me it isn't true."

Illya hardened his features, and allowed the 'Ice Prince' to come to fore. He was thinking along the same lines as April. If the Thrushes believed her to be innocent in all of this, it would give them an ace up their sleeve.

"I would say I am sorry, but that would also be a lie," he said, with an edge of sharpened steel in his voice. "You have been a useful cover for me, but that is over. I am afraid the wedding is off."

April burst into tears, which were so convincing even Illya had to remind himself that she was acting.

"So it was all a lie?" she sobbed. "You don't love me? What will I tell Mom and Dad?"

"That is not my problem," Illya snarled. "Though I must admit it is somewhat freeing to no longer have to pretend to be so sickeningly in love."

Mrs West was surprised that an U.N.C.L.E. agent could be so heartless, but then remembered who she was dealing with. For all he was 'one of the good guys', Illya Kuryakin had a reputation for being ruthless, which was no doubt a result of his KGB training. April couldn't be certain, but she would be willing to bet that Illya was speaking from the heart with that statement.

"Enough of this," Mrs West snapped. "Who is the courier?"

"I do not know," Illya spat back, hissing as the gun was pressed harder against his skull.

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Believe what you like,"

"We'll just have to search everyone," Mrs West sighed. "We need to put him out of action first."

In one swift move, she grabbed a knitting needle from her bag and jabbed it into Illya's side. It didn't go deep, but was more than enough to transfer the drug it was tipped with to enter his bloodstream.

"That should keep him sleeping for a while," the woman said, as Illya slumped back into his seat.

Although it meant she was now acting alone, it gave April the opportunity she had been waiting for. As the Russian dropped, she raised her gun and fired two darts. The projectiles hit their targets, causing Mrs West and the gunman to join Illya in the land of slumber. Strangely, none of the passengers seemed to react to this. Puzzled, she stood up to address them.

"My name is April Dancer," she told them.

It was a risk, as she didn't know if there were any other Thrushes on board, but she had to sort the mess out quickly.

"I'm an enforcement agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," she continued. "As is my friend here."

She pointed to Illya, who was so deeply unconscious as to appear dead. A quick check for his pulse assured her he was still alive.

"If you'll all just bear with me, we should on the move again very soon."

It wasn't easy to get to the front of the bus, because Mrs West had landed on top of the gunman, but April managed to clamber over them; making sure to confiscate the pistol as she went. Once she reached the driver, she asked him to help her move the unconscious Thrushes. She briefly considered soliciting the assistance of the courier, but figured it would be better not to blow his cover.

"Where to," the driver asked.

"Is that the guy's car?" April asked, indicating the vehicle parked directly in front of them.

"Yep."

"Then we'll stick them in there, and then get moving."

As it turned out, April didn't have to do any of the carrying, as three of the male passengers volunteered to help the driver. She was an independent, modern woman but, if men wanted to do the heavy lifting for her, she wasn't about to argue. Before stepping back aboard the bus, she searched the sleeping Thrushes and took anything that would identify them, along with weapons and communicators. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something weird about the way the passengers were behaving. It was nothing like she would expect innocents to act in this situation.

"Ready to go?" said the driver, settling back into his seat.

Before she could answer, there was a groan from halfway up the bus, and April realised that Illya was coming to. She had heard stories of the man's resilience to Thrush drugs, but she didn't think he would wake up so soon.

"Get going," she instructed the driver, as she headed for the Russian.

"Mr Kuryakin?"

"Illya," he replied groggily. "You need only call me Mr Kuryakin in official settings. What is happening?"

April explained everything from the point he'd been rendered unconscious.

"I was just about to contact HQ to ask what I should do from here."

"No need," Illya said, as he pulled out his communicator to call for Napoleon. "We have played our part."

"Solo," came the voice from the pen-like device.

"Operation Red Herring is closed."

"Excellent. The package arrived safely an hour ago," Napoleon answered. "There'll be a car waiting for you at Penn Station, Tovarisch. Oh, and you can begin Miss Dancer's debriefing."

Illya tucked the communicator away and smiled at the various expressions vying for control on April's face.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"Sit down, and I will explain."

April listened carefully as Illya explained that everyone left on the bus was a decoy. They were all members of U.N.C.L.E.S support staff, and had been placed on the bus to divert attention from the true courier. Even the driver was employed by the command.

"That explains it," April stated.

"Explains what?"

"Why no-one was reacting to a gunman in the way I would expect," she told him. "There was a little screaming when he came on board but, thinking back on it, they all just sat and watched. There was no crying or shaking with fear."

Illya made a mental note to discuss this with everyone at a later date. These decoy scenarios needed to be as realistic as possible. He also castigated himself for not noticing. In fairness, though, his mind had been on the Thrushes. He had memorised the photographs of everyone who would be aboard, so had immediately noticed the one face he didn't know. It had been difficult to believe Mrs West was a Thrush agent, but Illya had learned long ago not to take things at face value.

"Why wasn't I told the truth?" April asked, sounding a little hurt. "And why did no-one intervene when you were knocked out?"

"They were under strict instruction on to interfere unless we were both taken out of action," Illya told her. "I apologise for the deception. You were going to be told, but then Napoleon realised that your three month assessment was due. It was agreed by Mr Waverly that the assignment would serve as such, and that I would make the final decision on your future. To this end, you needed to be kept in the dark on some points."

"I'm almost afraid to ask. . ."

"I am in no doubt that you will become one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best assets," he told her, with a grin. "Although I was unconscious for some of the time, I know that you performed your duties with speed, professionalism and, above all, success."

April's grin mirrored Illya's, and it grew even wider at his next words.

"You have no need to worry about being a 'failed experiment'," he told her. "Do you have any more questions?"

"Just one. How did you know Thrush would target this bus?"

The idea had been a simple one. U.N.C.L.E. had discovered that Thrush was aware of the prototype weapon's existence, so had let it be known that the courier was being shadowed by Illya Kuryakin. They knew that his name alone was enough to ensure Thrush would fall for the decoy and, while they attacked the bus, the weapon would be sent as part of an innocuous mail order delivery.

"Can you forgive our little ruse?" Illya asked April, as she absorbed everything she had been told.

"I imagine agents are kept out of the loop quite often, and for various reasons" she answered. "I suppose it's something I'll get used to, darling."

"Darling?"

Illya frowned slightly at the word. It put him in mind of the peroxide blonde bitch Napoleon spent far too much time with. Still, coming from April, it didn't sound quite suggestive.

"Oh, sorry, Mr Kuryakin," April quickly apologised. "It's a habit of mine, but I try to curb it around my superiors."

"Please don't restrain yourself on my account," Illya told her. "We're colleagues. I would suggest you not use it with Mr Waverly though. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to take a nap. That drug I was given is still coursing through me, and I can already feel the headache starting."

As Illya went to sleep, April couldn't keep the smile from her face. She had passed her first big test since graduating from Survival School and was now, officially, a Section 2 agent.


End file.
